Maybe its because my mother had such a devotion to her, but I always saw Mary as this wimpy little girl who could be talked into anything. I hated that she was manipulated into becoming a mother, forced to do what her family told her, made to be something I don’t think that she was ready for.
“My” Mary reflected so much of what I felt about my life. My mother was “saint Anne”, a mom I could only see as needy and clinging to her daughters life for a life of her own. Mary this little girl who was being told what to do and how to think. My brother was my angel who told me that I could not start my life because I was to take care of mother…what about him…he lived only thirty minutes from my mother in Baltimore and my mother was not an invalid, or seriously ill, she was just needy, clinging and childlike! How dare he tell me what my life was to be like, but I did what he said/commanded me to do.
I would look at those I am so much more innocent and pious than you are eyes and secretly hate her, her little girl looks, her blinky eyed what do you mean look like on her face. This Mary was a fraud, just as I was feeling: a fraud, I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I grew up, and I felt like I was living a nothing life — a life without purpose. As for the marriage and pregnancy, she was trapped just as I was feeling trapped.
I hated her…what she stood for me, what she did, who I thought she was.